


It's All in the Hips

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg notices a change in Mycroft the morning after their first night together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's All in the Hips

**Author's Note:**

> Pure fluff with a side dish of low-cal smut. I was looking at pics from the set of the new series and noticed the difference between the way Gatiss stands when he's just Gatiss and the way he stands when he's Mycroft. That prompted 1700 words of shmoop. I started to call this "Hips Don't Lie" but then I remembered that I hate that song with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns, otherwise, that would have been a good title. I apologize in advance for the quality of this, but it did help me with my writer's block. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

He’d noticed it for the first time the morning after he’d finally managed to wrangle the man into his bed. He’d woken to an empty pillow next to his head and was sure that Mycroft had slipped out sometime in the middle of the night. He tried not to be disappointed and told himself that he understood; the man had work to do, after all. He had ridiculously important work to do, in fact. Knowing that lessened the sting not one bit. He’d just flopped onto his back and begun wiping the sleep from his eyes when he heard a quiet clatter from his kitchen. The hands still on his face detected the stupidly broad grin that bloomed at the noise. He got up and grabbed a pair of boxers from his drawer, not bothering to look for the rather worse for wear pair he’d discarded somewhere on the floor last night. He padded into the toilet to relieve himself and clean his teeth, then he headed for the kitchen.

The sight that greeted him nearly took his breath away. He remembered walking back to his car one morning after responding to a dead body found in Sydenham Hill Wood. The sky was just turning lavender with the approaching dawn when he’d raised his head from his brooding thoughts on the new case to spot a deer standing about 10 meters away. He went completely and utterly still, shocked cold by the sight of something so wild and rare in the boundaries of his city. Soon though, his shock transformed into something far more reverent. It was a quiet, private, completely unexpected moment of simple beauty. Greg was by no means a fanciful or poetic man, but even he couldn’t deny the awe blooming in his chest as he gazed at such a beautiful creature. He had no idea how long he stood there before the clatter of equipment and the chatter of his team approaching from behind startled the animal into darting back into the woods and broke the moment. But he never forgot it. Now here he stood in his own kitchen, five years down the road, awash in a sense of déjà vu.

Oh, he recognized the man in front of him. It was still Mycroft, yet, somehow, it wasn’t quite the same Mycroft he’d held in his arms last night. God knew, he’d found the man almost painfully attractive from the get go, but this creature, this Mycroft, was something new. The taller man was standing in front of the stove waiting for the kettle to boil, dressed in Greg’s threadbare dressing gown. His hands were in the pockets and his head was tilted to the side a bit as if he were trying to hear some distant sound. All of this was a new experience for Greg, of course, but none of it was at the root of the undeniable change in the man before him.

No, it had more to do with the arrangement of his body, with a subtle curve to his long lines that Greg had never seen before. And his hips. Oh, his hips. The loose sling of the joints there were the crux of the transformation. Greg thought to himself that it wasn’t Mycroft’s eyes that were the window to his soul… it was his hips. He had one leg slightly in front of the other and his hips were cocked out to the side, his pelvis and his stomach jutting out just a bit. It reminded him of nothing so much as those toys he’d gotten when he was a boy, the little figurines that had a button underneath that made them collapse when you pushed it. Apparently, he thought with more than a hint of smug satisfaction, he’d managed to push Mycroft’s button. This seemed only fair since the man had been pushing all of Greg’s buttons for the better part of a year.

He lounged against the doorframe of the kitchen, his body responding to the other man’s posture with a sympathetic languor. He stood there and watched until the kettle whistled and Mycroft finally acknowledged his presence as he set the tea to steep.

“Good morning, Gregory.”

“Good morning, Mycroft. I pegged you as more of a coffee man in the mornings.”

“Ah, yes. Well, I typically am, but I don’t have my toothbrush here, and coffee would only exacerbate that problem, I’m afraid.”

“You could’ve used my toothbrush, you know.”

Greg laughed at the little moue of distaste that remark elicited. “Mycroft, you had your tongue in my mouth and quite a few other places for the better part of the night.”

“Nevertheless, I still don’t think--“

“It’s fine, it’s fine. I don’t care if you don’t want to share my toothbrush, so long as you don’t expect me not to kiss you, morning breath and all.”

He noticed the flash of insecurity in the other’s eyes, the slight tightening of his joints in reaction to Greg’s words. “Oh, no you don’t. None of that, I mean it,” he grumbled as he wrapped one arm around those hips and the other around that long pale neck. He coaxed Mycroft’s head down toward his own. “I plan to kiss you every morning, no matter what. You may as well get used to it.”

And kiss him he did. At first it was just a chaste press of his lips against thin, soft skin. He rubbed his lips back and forth over Mycroft’s, grazing them gently, relishing the give of the pliant flesh, the slight pressure against his teeth and gums. He stuck just the tip of his tongue out and dipped it into the hollow at the corner of other man’s mouth, tasting the salty sweetness there, feeling the line that worry and age were digging into Mycroft’s flesh. He opened his mouth and laved his tongue more fully across that line, trying to lick it smooth with the heat of his body and warmth of his regard. Mycroft gasped at the sensation, and Greg used the opportunity to slip inside.

He slid his tongue over the top of the other man’s, pushing and dragging, enjoying the feel of the ever so slightly rougher texture of Mycroft’s taste buds against the smooth underside of his own muscle. He licked up against the slick palette of the roof of the man’s mouth, sweeping the side of his tongue along the inside curve of a perfect row of teeth. He pulled back and sucked gently on the other tongue that was just beginning to stir and match his movements. They stood there in the kitchen, wan morning light shining through the window, the sounds of the waking city echoing in the distance, and mapped every groove and line and texture of each other’s mouths. Greg finally eased off, sipping on Mycroft’s bottom lip and giving it a little nip as he let go. Panting in desire, he soothed the sting with his tongue and licked a broad stripe across Mycroft’s lips, wiping away the sheen of their combined saliva with a soft moan. He placed open mouthed kisses along a sharp jawline and gently worried at the delicate skin behind Mycroft’s ear with his teeth.

He felt two long hands grip his ass and settle him into the cradle of the taller man’s pelvis. When he felt the sinuous undulation of those loose hips grinding against his own, he broke away from nibbling on a sharp collar bone with a loud groan.

“Oh, Jesus, that’s good,” he rumbled, his voice low and rough with arousal. He tugged the belt of the dressing gown open and slid his hands inside to run them over a smooth, pale back. He ran his hand down Mycroft’s flank and settled his warm palm against his swaying hips. He could feel the muscles moving underneath skin, feel the press and release of the sharp bone against his hand. He skimmed his calloused fingers over the crease where Mycroft’s leg met his ass; he moved back around to press his thumb against the flexing tendon where Mycroft’s thigh joined his groin. Finally, he resettled each hand on Mycroft’s hips and enjoyed the ride. Enjoyed the feel of the smooth swing of his thrusts against his cock, enjoyed the feel of strong fingers fondling and kneading his behind, enjoyed the rolling bend of his wrists as they relaxed and flowed with Mycroft’s hips.

They writhed together, moaning and whispering quiet words of encouragement until Mycroft lifted him firmly up against his body for one last, hard stroke and Greg felt a warm gush soak into the flannel of his boxers and coat the skin of his abdomen. Mycroft stilled for just a few moments before he began his slow rhythm again, moving until Greg was drenching his boxers from the other side and biting a mark into the man’s pale shoulder to stifle what would have been a tight-throated shout.

They clung to each other, propped up against one another as leverage to keep from falling, until they caught their breath. Mycroft eventually roused from his stupor to murmur, “Bed, I think,” his voice exuding the same satisfied lassitude as the rest of his body.

“Mmhmm. Oh, your tea,” Greg answered, his own speech sounding raspy and a bit slurred.

“Forget it, it’s ruined anyway. I believe I’ve found another refreshment I prefer in the mornings.”

“’Zat right? You take it with cream, I suppose.”

“I suppose I do,” Mycroft replied with an indulgent quirk of his lips. “Come on,” he urged, tugging Gregory by the hand back down the hallway toward the bedroom.

Later, much later, Greg mumbled sleepily, “All of that and you’re grossed out by sharing my toothbrush?”

“I never said it was logical.”

“No, you didn’t. I guess you’ll just have to start keeping one of your own here, then.”

Mycroft’s lips caressed his forehead as Greg squeezed the hip underneath his hand.

“I guess I will.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _End Note: I have no idea if Lestrade would be called to a case in Sydenham Hill Wood, but there have actually been sightings of wild deer there._


End file.
